even rome fell
by fuckin-rodent
Summary: 'Maybe that was a mistake. But Rome never rests, you suppose, and that's why she's tapping on your window at two in the morning.' In which I write a 2nd POV (butch's perspective) about Roman and Greek Mythology with a dash of Shakespeare and wonder why I haven't finished my art project yet. GREENS. (Mostly Butch and Buttercup, other characters mentioned. drabble fic/oneshot.)


**RATED M** because i still dont wanna risk it and i dont understand FFN's fuckin policies still lmao (there's swearing, so i guess there's that.)

 **WORD COUNT** (excluding this part): 3426 words

ALSO no beta. who the hell do you think i am? a guy that actually goes through and proofreads? well you'd be wrong. read at your own risk.

i dont know. dont ask. this came up because i got bored and this is better than doing literally anything productive. i also like mythology, so. shrug. here you go i guess. enjoy? or dont. greco-roman mythology isnt for everybody. lmao what even is this

* * *

She is Rome, you think.

Tall on decorative columns that people often forget support their civilization. Give them the shelter they are desperate for, protect them from the storms and the skirmishes beyond those stony walls. Sure, she crumbles, she staggers, but she easily rebuilds herself. Stronger this time, sturdier.

You notice this when you're at the beach. Her legs are long, agile and strong. Pale in the dazzling light, but warm in the sun and a god like yourself struggles to not bow at her feet. Because that's what you are, really, you're both gods, but what's the point in a god if the temple isn't there first? So she is the temple, she is _Rome_ , and you are a god, you are Olympus. Olympus doesn't seem so high and mighty anymore.

"Buttercup," You leer, and she snarls at you, "Butch."

But she's still Rome, you think. You wonder if to her you are only Janus – two faced and pretentious – or maybe even Hercules – a cocky demigod prowling as you want. And when you dare step foot onto her sanctimonious grounds, the earth starts to rumble.

A deep set kind of protectiveness, whenever you shove a person on the streets, or when you tag the water tower. This is _her_ land. This is _her_ city, _her_ civilization, her culture. By gods, how could you do such a thing? How could you look her in the eyes and honestly say you want to _watch her fall._

The truth is simple: you can't.

You're only a god, after all. A foolish one, a flippant and faltering one. Still a god, among these mortals, and there is ichor (dark, dark, nearly blue blood, it drips from your nose, it glistens on her knuckles,) in your veins and when you look in her eyes there is the indubitable _reverence_ that is only present in the presence of a deity. But she doesn't bow. Her terracotta stubbornness denies her the will to do so. It's a mistake.

You make sure she knows this.

Rome will fall, you think.

Because she'll glance at you over her shoulder. Her eyes are bright – like the toxic energy that these mortals will discover millenia into the future, what these mortals will use to destroy this soil she is so valiantly trying to protect. It's pathetic. It's problematic. It's pure potential.

Her hands, wrought, stiffened and chipping, grip onto you tight enough that you can't breathe. Ichor pours into your eyes – you're not sure if it's hers or, gods forbid, _yours_. A choked laugh from yourself, and Rome is so fucking mighty. Sun in the background, her silhouette damn near godly itself, and her eyes burn. They _burn_. Just like you wish she would. Burn it all to the ground. Watch the culture she's tried so hard to protect char black. No more white, pristine columns. No more stone walkways. No more walls. You want it all to fall down.

It's all fantasy, though. You know it's unlikely to happen.

You may be a god, but she is the embodiment of _force_.

And fuck, is Rome a force to be reckoned with. It's not only in your futile squabbles, but in the quiet moments. You breathe, she tries to. On the boardwalk, the outskirts of her precious community. Feet dangling above the restless tides. And below that, deep down in Orcus. You know neither of you will ever get there. You can't die, after all. She says, "Deep down in Hades, the dead drone." And you wonder when the fuck she thought herself Greek instead of Roman.

She is _Rome_ , not Troy, not Thessaly. She is Rome. You sneer at her, "Where the _fuck_ is Hades?" She whirls her head to stare at you, "What do you _mean_ 'where's Hades'?"

"It's _Orcus_ , you dumb fuck."

Realization shatters her eyes like her precious grecian vases. There is a rift bigger than anything Neptune could've caused between you. Rome, as she stares at you, must think you Romulus right now. Foolhardy, overeager and _savage_.

"It's all Greek to me," And Rome seems proud of herself for bringing up _Shakespeare_ of all fucking people in a battle of Roman and Greek. You roll your eyes. There's not much for you to get mad at her at. As long as Rome is standing, as long as her people are safe, it's all fine. (You suppose, with that logic, it doesn't matter that her columns are crumbling. Terracotta tiles slipping. Ichor seeping into the cracks of her stone walkways.)

You allow Rome to stand another day.

* * *

She's so pretty like this, you think.

Standing in the ruins of another toppled skyscraper, blood leaving tracks down the shape of her face. Ragged huffs, clenched fists, gritted teeth. Her eyes are scalding.

But you're a god, and what's the point of being a god if you're not being cocky all the time? "What's the matter, _Helen_? Need some Spartans to come rescue you?" This is where she coils herself tight like a spring, readies herself for an attack you can predict.

Except it's not predictable, because she goes low instead of high and a left hook finds you sailing into the building across the street. "Helen caused carnage," Rome hisses, "She didn't need no fuckin' Menelaus to save her." Of course that's the version she'll go by, you think. It only fits. She is vicious, she is cruel and she is a catastrophe wrapped up in white-wash column limbs and sturdy armored bronze. Of course she would see that heavenly Helen as something significant. Of course.

Rome is telltale like that.

That's why when she charges at you again, you roll to the side and elbow her roughly. A flash of green, a pained growl, before calloused, wrought hands are at your throat again. Your breathing was already troubled. Now it's worse. The smell of her sizzling flesh is like tasting ambrosia after eons without.

Later, back at the boardwalk, she pants. You glance at her. Rome's defenses are lowered, the people are scattering for repair, to aid what doesn't need help healing. Most of the cracks have already been smoothed over, those loose tiles replaced. Her people are always too late. You wonder why she cares so much.

You look at her this time. _Look_ at her with the scrutiny and challenge of Minerva. She stares back at you with the defiance of Neptune; deep set rage and so damn mighty. But, beyond that, she is a girl.

Rome is a girl. Messy black hair – cropped short, straw-like as if Ceres' harvests failed. Her skin is pockmarked marble, the curve of her smirk is wearier than any sorrowful statue. Rome is a girl, you think. Gods, that's fucking sad. She's sad. It's there in the furrow of her eyebrows, the dullness in her hallowed eyes. Rome is a girl, and the girl is getting tired of being Rome.

(She stands and walks away without a word. Her people fall silent as she strolls; head held high, shoulders straight and legs long. This is why you don't like mortals. They don't care about the little things, so long as they get what they want. Gods can be greedy, yes, but mortals are _gratutiously gluttonous_.)

So you remain on the boardwalk. The wood under your hands is weathered and withered. The sands further along – once gold now gray – shift with each drag of the tide. Gray ocean, gray sky, gray souls.

You think that they'd all be better off in Orcus.

And Rome stands another day.

* * *

Rome is only a girl.

Rome has sisters. _They_ are Troy, _they_ are Thessaly. Her younger sister fluctuates between Larunda and Flora, an benign combination that you think is honestly a little frivolous. Her older sister is Minerva through and through. Athena, you suppose. Headstrong, strategic and _cold_.

But your girl?

She is Rome.

She is Bellona, Discordia and Justitia. A righteous amalgamation that makes you shake if you think about it too much. Not that you let her know that. Besides, each day looks like she's getting worse and worse, and Rome is starting to crumble. It's not as gratifying as you thought it'd be.

Mainly because it's not _your_ doing.

It's her people doing the damage.

Harsh comments, disregard and disrespect. Rumors, callous flirting, name-calling. It's fucking disgusting. In your glory, you are not the most moral. You don't have standards, no boundaries. But even this is repulsive. Their treatment of your Rome, dare you say _your equal._

It makes your fist clench, teeth grit, heart ache. The way she'll stare blankly for a second. How she'll have to bite back retribution. There's a certain image she has to maintain. Strong, respectable. Rome slowly eats away at herself. It's an unjust way to go, you think.

Every monster she defeats, the messier they get. There's more destruction now. Her fighting is sloppy. More destruction, more torn limbs, more scattered teeth and ooze. The boardwalk you two share was destroyed in the most recent debacle. The remnants of wood clutter in the sea. You wonder what her father has to say about this – her sisters. You already know what the people think. They never shut up. "God, she's fucked up again," and "Somebody get her on a leash." It's the last comment that makes you singe the hairs of nearby citizens. Ungrateful, lordy motherfuckers. They don't know a god if it came and fucking aided apotheosize.

They stare at you with fear and horror as you shoulder you way through them. How _dare_ they downtalk Rome? The girl trying to protect them, the girl who has dedicated _eons_ to keeping this place standing. Sure, this is a little bit of a low – but even gods have their bad days.

Take you, for instance.

You're having a bad day.

And it's all because of them. But you'd break her if you took it out on the people. So you storm away instead, like the brewing hurricane you are, with the nearly blue ichor you have, with the tempestuous zephyrs in your eyes. They will bow, you think. Whether to you or to her, you haven't figured out yet.

It's none of your business, really. She came before you. She's the temple, you're the god finding respite in it. It's not any of your business – the history in her columns, the scratches on her tiles and stone paths. It's there, but it's best to leave things to rest. Let her rest. Let her rest. _Please, let her rest._

But Rome is nothing but stubborn, you think, and that's why you're not that surprised when you find her in the empty fields away from the town not an hour later. She's sitting in the dying grass, staring out to the silhouette of her empire on the shoreline.

You land beside her. She doesn't acknowledge you. Of course she wouldn't, you think, she's haunting herself with her memories. Her shoulders slump when you nudge her. "I'm tired," Rome whispers. You sit beside her, and cock your head, "What?" How can Rome be _tired_? She's invincible, she's indestructible, she's -

she's so young.

Because Rome is a girl, you remind yourself. Rome is a girl who wasn't made for the sake of violence. She was made for the sake of a people; a homestead, protection, shelter. As much as she might like the bloodied bronze of a helmet or the way she thrives in the intensity of battle...she relies on the people as they rely on her. And her people are slowly but surely digging deeper trenches into her sacrosanct soils. Inadvertently tearing her apart. She's Caesar, her people are Brutus and they are wedging their knives deeper and deeper into hollow fissures.

Out of nowhere, she asks, "I'll never set foot in Hades, will I?"

You want to tell her it's Orcus, she'll never set foot in Orcus.

Instead you say,"You ask my like I have any goddamn clue."

Rome slumps further, until she lies flat on the ground. Golden wheatgrass crumples under her, and seeds are lost in her hair. Sweet Suadela, she is beautiful. Instead, unnerved by this sudden warmth in your chest, you smirk. "Soft Helen, are you saying what I think you're saying?"

"Shut it _Narcissus_ ," She scowls at you, "I'm not saying anything." You lean in closer, shoulder to shoulder. She's so tired. Bags under her eyes, cheekbones sharp. Her hair is bedraggled, choppy and messy in a way that says _revive me_ rather than _revolt with me._ "Are you sure?" You lean in even closer. She doesn't push you away. "We could always leave, y'know." She glances at you, "... _we_?" You nod. Gods, she's not even denying it now. Actually entertaining the idea. You can see it in her eyes; as they light up a little, hope daring a spark.

But before you could be Mercury, offer her a multitude of open doors, her device rings. An agitating beep that cuts through the peace. Rome sighs, shoulders slumping. The city trembles. So do you, but you've always prided yourself as a master of secrets.

"I'll see you 'round," She sighs. Your eyes meet. Green on green, but she's fruitful like citrus while you're natural like moss. "I guess you will," You murmur. That's the first time in your history that she's ever said that. Ever acknowledged that you both share the same world. She's the temple, you're the god living in it, but...she's never bothered welcoming you into her stone walls before. It feels like a right of passage. A trial gone right.

It's a shame you didn't manage to convince her.

You think she would blossom out in fair Verona.

Gods, and you criticized her use of Shakespeare.

* * *

So sometimes you bite off more than you can chew. All gods do it one day or another. You've just never admitted to it before. And maybe, just this once, you'll admit: you bit off more than you could chew.

More than you could swallow.

Because you planted a seed in Rome's defenses. The promise of escape, the ability to leave, to explore, to experience Terra and what she has to offer. Maybe that was a mistake. Maybe. Others think it is – you've seen Rome taking up extra hours at the mechanics' garage and a big glass jar resting on her nightstand labeled 'TICKETS'. Under her pillow is an old, beat up atlas with black marker on multiple pages – England, Brazil, Italy, Greece, to the point where it becomes every page and her global map is a big black smudge.

Your meetings have become more frequent, and in less of a rivaling sense. Now you sing along to songs together, you visit her during her work hours, and she visits you during the late hours. It's a good routine, you think. But Rome never rests, you suppose, and that's why she's tapping on your window at two in the morning.

She looks so regal in moonlight. Her eyes are luminescent, her smile gleams. The excitement is unrivaled; you know, deep down, that not even great Apollo would be able to replicate that smile. Still groggy, you smile back at her. It's too soft, you think. The alarm bells are muted and dim in your head when you let the window off the latch.

Rome slips in like Trojans into Sparta and, _gods_ , that makes no fucking sense. "Morning," She chuckles. You yawn, "Mornin'." She's pretty in the cover of Luna. You don't ask her why she's here. You don't ask her why she's awake. You don't ask her anything, and she doesn't say anything. She's warm, though. Her weight on the edge of your bed, her hand so close to yours. Yet, so far away. Worlds apart. She thinks of Heracles when asked about heroes, you think Hercules.

That doesn't stop her from slumping against your bedframe, though. Even Rome needs her rest. It's just a shame she never gets it. "How do you do it?" You find yourself asking. Her piercing eyes snatch up your question before it's fully out of your mouth. Only she can defy you like this. Only your Rome.

"How do I do what?"

In this moment, it's easy to pretend that she is the god, you are the mortal. She looks ready to smite you. Even in her oversized nightshirt, cotton socks and woolly Hello Kitty socks. She'd just have to grab you neck – jerk it roughly (get it? Cus it's a joke and she's practically a sex icon around here with those damn legs -) and you'd be gone. The light would fade from your eyes, the fight would drain from your body, and she'd look down at you in existential dread and grief.

"Jus'..." You shrug. "Being a superhero, all that." She looks at you for a moment. The silence is suffocating, a kind of tension to it that tells you that you're treading on ice thinner than Vulcan's patience.

"Guess I was just made to do it," Rome tells you. Underneath the casual truth is bitterness. The clench in her jaw, the hard quality to her eyes; it all gives her away. "Don't really know much else." And that's _sad_ , because she's _Rome_ for fuck sake, she should have these people in the palm of her hand, but they spit at her instead.

And she's only a girl, you think.

A cynical, bitter girl who has a heart inspired by Libertas.

And you've always been inspired by that cruel Cupid, so that's why you grab her hand. And he must be looking down on you. That's why Rome doesn't crush you were you lay. Instead, she just looks at you and smiles. It doesn't meet her eyes, but your laughs have never met your heart, so it's all okay. And it's nice, you think.

It's nice. Quiet. Still. A anticipating kind of chaos foreign to you. Clearly Rome is a pro. "You said we could run away," Is what she whispers.

You blink at her through sleep. "I did," You reply.

" _We_ specifically," She continues. You nod, "Us."

She falls quiet again. Your stomach twists itself into knots. You've never been a patient one. When she talks, all your irritable hope falls still. "We should do it."

"We should do it?"

She nods. "You said we _could_ , and I've saved up enough for us to buy plane tickets with extra left over and -" You calm her with a kiss to the cheek. Her mouth snaps shut with a click. For a second, you wonder if you've been reading this past year all wrong. (Your fears are quenched when she smiles gently at you. This entire thing between you is too soft; you don't understand it, this gentleness sends you reeling, and she looks like smoothed marble.) "Yeah," You breathe, "Yeah, I said we could do it. I...I think we should do it, Helen."

Because she is Helen, isn't she? A vicious, vitriolic princess that needs no saving. And she's getting out of here. If she wants to drag you along for the ride, then who are you to stop her? You'll be her Paris, whatever the fuck she wants. You two can run off to Sparta, maybe. You think she'd like that. Right?

She believes in Hades, after all, not Orcus.

Not that it makes you love her any less.

She just snorts at you, rolling her eyes at the name. "Am I ever gonna be more than Helen to you?" You meet eyes then. You don't know how to tell her that you already do. You see her as... _her_ , as Rome, as the strong backbone of this godforsaken city and all the people in it. But...words have never been you thing. So you just shrug, and smirk, and nudge her, "'Til you show me different, you'll be Helen and I'll be Paris."

Rome chuckles softly, shaking her head. She is Rome once again, not the girl underneath. "Then let's go," She tells you. "Okay," You tell her.

"What changed your mind?"

The look she gives you is...

it's pretty fucking veracious.

"Even Rome fell, didn't it?"


End file.
